


yours is a negative kingdom

by hwarium



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - The Raven Cycle Fusion, Ambiguous Relationships, M/M, Magical Realism, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-17 10:48:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28723842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hwarium/pseuds/hwarium
Summary: [Prompt: Person A can pull things out of their dreams. Person B is a dream thing they pulled out.]Kim Mingyu has a room full of Yoon Jeonghans.
Relationships: Kim Mingyu/Yoon Jeonghan
Comments: 23
Kudos: 72
Collections: Seventeen Holidays





	yours is a negative kingdom

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this prompt](https://17hols.dreamwidth.org/4307.html?thread=134867#cmt134867) on Round 2 of 17hols.

"What do you want to eat?" Mingyu asked. He was craning his neck, looking for a green light among the reds in this parking garage. He flicked his eyes to the person in the passenger seat.

"You like bulgogi right?" Jeonghan replied. A lock of brown hair drooped into his eye and he blew a puff of air to push it off.

"What do _you_ want to eat,” Mingyu pressed. He doesn’t know why, but all of a sudden he wants to hear an answer to this question. Needs it like an itch beneath his skin that must be scratched.

Jeonghan just smiled, tugging up a face mask to cover his nose, “Lets have bulgogi.”

* * *

Kim Mingyu was a dreamer.

No, not in the common sense, not the type of _dreamer_ discussed in parent-teacher interviews at school, or the _dreamer_ when friends describe him to the potential-blind-dates-to-be. Yes, Mingyu has ‘dreams’ — to build a house by the beach and raise 3 tiny white dogs. Mingyu also dreams when he sleeps, in that fitful period of mad unconsciousness where the mind mends itself, or so the science says.

Everyone dreams.

No one brings dreams to life.

Mingyu can’t help it. When he wakes up, the last thing he dreamt will materialise next to him. Boom, swish, abracadabra. Exactly the way it was in his mind. Once he was craving bulgogi and an entire barbecue appeared on his pillow, coals and all. That was incredibly terrifying, an emotion which would aptly summarise how Mingyu felt about this genetic inheritance.

Over the years he curated an odd menagerie. Some objects, although strange, could be explained. Like a Fujifilm camera which was never made (bootleg model), or duplicates of abstract paintings from his favourite artist (excellent forgeries). Some souvenirs would raise eyebrows if not complete alarm. Like a padded coat that was always warm to touch, as if someone had just taken it off. Or a single incandescent bulb that was lit even though it wasn’t screwed into any electrical source.

Those, he kept in a barn deep in the forests of rural Korea. It was a barn full of secrets that he will take to his grave. Except from his father, no knows that it exists, and he doesn’t know what will happen to the dream-artefacts when he dies — will they disappear with him? Or will they continue to exist, suspended in time like a museum of forgotten sundries that someone may stumble across one day. And if they do, they will be in for a shocking surprise.

Because in that barn, was a room full of Yoon Jeonghans.

Multiple.

Seventeen, to be exact.

* * *

In middle school, Mingyu harboured the most devastating crush on an upperclassman two grades above. The first day of class, Mingyu had tripped on his own feet and dropped his new books all over the hallway in the midst of class-change. He had scrambled to retrieve his stuff before teenagers stomped over it, and someone had bent down to help him. When Mingyu looked up to offer his breathless thanks, he was struck with a boy with long chestnut hair and a twinkling smile.

He didn’t dream about him then, but Mingyu daydreamed non-stop. He relived the moment over and over again: in the middle of maths, while waiting at traffic lights, while stuck in cram school. How the boy picked up Mingyu’s notebooks and pens and passed it to him without a look of annoyance or haste. How he held Mingyu’s bag open as Mingyu tried to shove everything inside as soon as possible to stop being a public nuisance, and the cadence of his voice as he said —

_”Hey, what’s the rush.”_

Mingyu repeated it in his mind, again and again until the meaning of the words faded and it was just a sound, full of warmth and glory.

* * *

The upperclassmen had P.E on Thursdays before lunch, and Mingyu spent that period gazing out the window, scanning the field for auburn hair, locking on like a fighter plane, then following him as he played soccer or basketball. At times a wistful envy will overcome him, for the people who could share that moment with that boy, to brush by him as he dodged a blocker, to touch his hand in a high-five or experience the immeasurable pleasure of watching him smile, again and again.

At this point, most of the things Mingyu dreamt into life were harmless. A few meaningless trinkets that could be shoved under his bed, and one time, a puppy. His father had laughed then, when Mingyu came wailing down the stairs, nose full of snot, eyes full of tears and his tiny arm full of a wriggling ball of fur. His parents let Mingyu keep and raise it, but his father told him to be careful. Mingyu didn't really understand what he meant then. But he does now.

* * *

Mingyu entered the passcode, the gates lifted, and he drove his car along the gravel road. The barn was around a corner and nestled into the overgrown trees. Mingyu parked his car and took a breath. To be honest, this place was only a barn on the outside. Indoors, it was fitted out like a mansion or a countryside estate, with two wings, four floors, and an innumerable number of rooms. Rationally, the interior space did not add up to the exterior size, but Mingyu never asked his father how the property was acquired.

Mingyu unloaded the trunk of his car. There was another box of useless dream items that could not be discarded easily. Like an Oxford English Dictionary, but the pages inside were completely blank except for one that contained nonsensical phrases like _I’m so tired_ or _no thanks_. There was a painting of sunflowers that moved depending on where the sun was, and a seashell that played Frank Ocean.

Balancing the box on his knee, Mingyu fumbled for the keys to unlock the main door. The foyer inside was pristine and dustless, sunlight streaming in from the skylight at the very top. Mingyu locked the door behind him and turned left onto the west wing to face another set of locked doors. He was reminded of a butterfly greenhouse in Vienna, set up so that the entrance contained two separate sets of doors, just to prevent butterflies from escaping. He doesn’t have keys to the east wing.

Butterflies.

Mingyu took a breath and pushed against the oak.

“Welcome back,” Jeonghan cheered. He was on the chaise sofa, tilting his head back to look at Mingyu upside down, his black hair fanned against the velvet.

"I'm back," Mingyu places the box on the closest table, "Where are the others?"

Jeonghan pouted and sprung up. His feet were bare, and he was just in an oversized striped shirt. He bent and lifted the box which Mingyu had just set down, bumping Mingyu’s hip with his own. “Aren’t you going to ask how I am?” He fluttered his eyelashes.

It took Mingyu a second before he remembered that _this_ Jeonghan loves him. The younger ones always do.

"Ah, thanks," Mingyu bent down to kiss his forehead, tucking a strand of hair behind Jeonghan's ear. “How are you?”

“I’m fine, just bored. The others are in the lounge room,” Jeonghan giggled, “Where do you want this?”

“Put it by the stairs, I’ll get to it later,” Mingyu took off his coat and draped it over the chaise. There was a sketchbook on the coffee table where Jeonghan had left it, flipped open to a drawing of Mingyu. The real Jeonghan couldn’t draw, but Mingyu had thought he did.

There was no one in the corridor but Mingyu stepped on a piece of lego which made him hiss and yelp for a minute, eyes clenched shut. He would have to talk to them about it. One of them. Or he should dream up a dozen slippers.

There was a Jeonghan sitting by the grandfather clock, ears pressed against the oak. This one had fluffy blonde hair and wore a rose-print sweater. He looked like an other-worldly being, ethereal in the afternoon sunlight. The scene took Mingyu’s breath away. This Jeonghan always did, and Mingyu promised to himself to find the Fujifilm and capture this later. It was unlikely for this Jeonghan to move. Mingyu did have his phone in his pocket but there was a rule he made for himself, to only use dream things on dream things.

He passed the library and another Jeonghan ran past him, laughing brightly. He caught a flash of pink hair quickly followed by red. The Jeonghans from this time were from university, and did not care much for Mingyu’s attention.

They weren't really Jeonghan, they were visions made from Mingyu's impressions of a boy he never got to know. Sometimes, this was easy to remember. The first few Jeonghans were caricatures of manga personalities, pubescent Mingyu filling in the blanks with rose-tinted assumptions and delusions of romance. The one with an ash blond ponytail adored him, always patted his hair and called him a good boy. The dream which created _that one_ was humiliating, and must have been a cosmic joke for it to be immortalised in a Yoon Jeonghan who expected his hair to be sniffed every time Mingyu came by.

The next Jeonghan he passes is in a Harley Quinn costume, blonde hair chalk-dyed at the tips. His hand reached out to cup Mingyu’s jaw and thumb at his ear. With his other hand, he flicked his hair back to expose a long expanse of pale skin.

At Seungcheol's halloween party they had posed for a photo, Mingyu leaning over to bite his neck. Jeonghan had tilted his head and the action made Mingyu hold back a whine. He was so close he could see the fine hairs on Jeonghan neck and smell him — but it was a different smell that time. Mingyu has smelled him before, he would breathe in every time Jeonghan walked past, would beeline to the other side of the hallway just so Jeonghan could pass him closer. In high school this was the nearest they came to touching, the breeze of Jeonghan's presence brushing by Mingyu's cheek. He smelt like hair masks and the ubiquitous fragrance of shared deodorant. But at this party, Mingyu walked into his space and learnt what Jeonghan smelled like up close. The faintest whiff of laundry powder, a hint of menthol from his face wash and strawberry from his lip balm. All the Jeonghans after smelled like this.

From that point, Mingyu learns that he can see over the top of Jeonghan's head, that his mouth lines up with Jeonghan's forehead, that he has to tilt his head _and_ bend his waist to nose at the soft skin of Jeonghan’s shoulder. The first few Jeonghans were too small and there were parts of them that hurt Mingyu to look at, like a video game that had not finished rendering.

In the kitchen is the Jeonghan with long chestnut hair, the very first Jeonghan that Mingyu ever brought to life. His eyes sparkle when they see Mingyu, literally, because Mingyu had dreamt him with stars in his eyes and a spring breeze running through his hair. It’s profoundly embarrassing and one of the later Jeonghans had teased him endlessly for it.

“Are you hungry?” this Jeonghan asks. The oven is on and there’s a waft of roasted chestnuts and sweet potato, “I can cook something up for you.”

Mingyu trusts this Jeonghan to cook, but he shakes his head anyway. He was planning to eat later, “No thanks, smells good though.”

This Jeonghan beams and Mingyu’s heart skips a beat. He can’t help it, even after all these years. By this point, he can’t remember if Jeonghan had smiled this brilliantly at him, or if it was a flourish of his own imagination. But this Jeonghan had the biggest smile of them all, never wavering no matter how temperamental Mingyu was. He had tested it once, a long time ago when his father got on a yacht and never came back to shore. Mingyu came to the barn and yelled at this Jeonghan. He had threw plates and called him names and questioned the meaning of his existence. Mingyu told him that he was just a dream, that he would never leave this house, that he could never become anything other than a poor imitation. But this Jeonghan had just smiled and listened and cleaned because he was created with angelic patience and an unconditional love for his creator.

So Mingyu went to bed and dreamt another Yoon Jeonghan, this time with short silver hair and a choker around his neck. In his dream Mingyu was fucking him in his parents bedroom, the one in Anyang with lace over the pillows. This Jeonghan was fighting him the entire time, nails clawing into Mingyu’s back, teeth snarling. Mingyu woke up and they were still fucking, Jeonghan riding him with one hand pressing down on his throat. Mingyu let him, until black spots appeared on the edge of his vision and he had to surge upwards to throw Jeonghan onto the floor. They fought and fucked all morning. And when they got tired of moving they stood up and shouted at each other for an hour and a half. Mingyu forgot what they were arguing about, what that Jeonghan had said, but he remembers panting in the corridor, mouth dry and heart pounding in his ears while he glared at a Yoon Jeonghan which hated him.

He remembers feeling victorious. Over what war, he does not know. But there was a satisfaction in seeing another side of Yoon Jeonghan, to see his features twisted into a scowl instead of a smile.

To piss him off even more Mingyu had locked his bedroom door and dreamt another Yoon Jeonghan. And another, and another. In the span of a fortnight he dreamt a dozen Yoon Jeonghans. Blond, brunette, black-haired. From high school, from university, from after. There were Yoon Jeonghans he met in person and Yoon Jeonghans he only saw in photos. He made Yoon Jeonghans who never acknowledged his existence, and he made Yoon Jeonghans that offered their lap to cry in, fingers always threading through Mingyu's hair and whispering, _it’s okay, it’s okay._

* * *

The second Jeonghan he dreamt into life, was the week after Jeonghan’s graduation from high school. For an entire year Mingyu anguished about whether he should confess, before Jeonghan leaves this naive space and goes somewhere Mingyu cannot follow for another two years.

The feeling gnawed at him perpetually. It grew inside him like a parasite until it felt like his lungs were full of it. It bubbled in his throat and every time Jeonghan walked past, Mingyu felt the words on the tip of his tongue, about to fall out if he parted his lips just so. But Jeonghan was always surrounded by waves of people who all vied for his attention, and Mingyu was too proud to be grouped into a crowd. He wanted Jeonghan on his own, to stand before Jeonghan by himself and have Jeonghan look at him in the eye and listen to what he has to say.

Mingyu never got the chance to confess. On the day of Jeonghan's graduation he gripped his self-confidence and approached the senior side of the hall after the ceremony. But there were parents with cameras who demanded a wide berth, and girlfriends with flowers and students posing and crying and laughing. He thought about what he could say, _hyung can I see you outside_ — _which university are you going to_ — _can I get your number_ , and he imagined Jeonghan’s face in response. Would he be flattered? Surprised? Pleased?

Even at 16, Mingyu was tall and Jeonghan saw him above the bustle. Their eyes met, Jeonghan raised a hand and waved with a flutter of thin fingers. Mingyu’s heart surged and he grinned and took another step towards Jeonghan, but as quickly as he looked up, Jeonghan dropped his hand and turned away. Someone whispered in his ear, another classmate swung an arm around his waist and veered him to face a camera, Jeonghan laughed, his back to Mingyu.

Mingyu stopped, smile frozen on his face.

It had felt like a rejection, or worse than a rejection, like a dismissal or a splash of iced water. What was he hoping for? For Jeonghan to leave all his friends and walk towards him? To approach him and tell Mingyu that he would miss him? For Jeonghan to look at him, just a little longer? Mingyu likes to think he wasn’t that arrogant, that he was a pragmatic person, but he dreamt of Jeonghan every night the following week.

All the dreams were the same. This Jeonghan had short brown hair with a long fringe that was parted on the side, the way he had styled it for graduation. They were at a teahouse or something, sitting on the floor with a low table between them. Mingyu just knew he was here to confess, that the purpose of this … date … was a confession. But even though he knew it was a dream, all he could do is meekly sit and look at his hands while the emotions tangled themselves in his chest.

Jeonghan was always laughing and talking in this dream. He made heart fingers, he winked, he cried. He sang Mingyu a Christmas carol and offered him a drink with a heart straw. In these dreams, Jeonghan’s eyes never left Mingyu’s face and his attention was clamped onto Mingyu like a spotlight. It was dizzying, like a trainwreck speed date but with the same person every round. Mingyu tried to look out the window but there were only more walls behind the screens. There was no door and the only other thing in the room was a TV screen that flashed the words: _CONFESS! THE END IS NIGH_.

The first few times Mingyu just squeezed his eyes shut until he woke up to an empty bed and a headache. And then he tried saying it, but the words made him choke and then he couldn’t stop coughing. When he looked up, the two tea cups had turned to three. One of them was _sikhye_ but the other two were vinegar. Mingyu knows because he drank them all, one dream after another while Jeonghan sat there and smiled, as if saying _you don’t need to drink so why are you doing this_. But it had felt like a test and Mingyu drank until he found the _sikhye_ on the first try. He downed the cup and slammed it onto the table. To his surprise, he found the words in his mouth, like a piece of gum that had been chewed and was now ready to be blown into a bubble. His heart was light and his throat was clear.

Mingyu looked up at Jeonghan. Jeonghan tilted his head. Mingyu opened his mouth —

— and woke up.

He blinked at the ceiling, tinted blue by the dim light of the early morning. Outside, a car alarm was blaring. Mingyu rolled over and found Jeonghan sitting on the floor of his room, in the same position as he was in the dream, head still tilted, a cup of tea in his hands.

“I like you,” Mingyu finally says. The words fly off his tongue and he feels, for a brief moment, buoyed by relief.

Jeonghan smiles, pliant and gentle, “I like you too.”

Mingyu's heart sinks.

He thought this was what he wanted to hear. From the hollow in his chest, it wasn't. 

* * *

Mingyu passes through the kitchen to take the long way to the lounge. He passes another Jeonghan in the sunroom.

This Jeonghan was rarely awake. He sat by the window, eyes half closed and always unfocused. He was born with a lollipop in his mouth and someone else’s leather jacket on his shoulders. Mingyu tries not to think about that. But he did, which is why he dreamt about this Jeonghan.

In his last year of university, he ran into Jeonghan again. He was sitting on the stairs in the back side of the club where the smokers congregated for a breath of fresh air. Jeonghan wasn't smoking, but he had something between his lips. It was only 1am, but his eyes were completely closed and his head rested against the steel handrail, arms drooping between his knees. This time his hair was dark brown, framing his forehead in a graceful wave.

"Hey," Mingyu said. _How are you_ he wanted to say, but that felt like too much, too meaningless for someone so precious.

Jeonghan’s eyes snapped open and darted towards Mingyu’s face, and then he seemed to relax again, the entire motion of his body lethargic and heavy. He sat up and turned his cheek to the space next to him, “Com’ere. Sit,” he muttered. His mouth rolled over the lollipop in his mouth and Mingyu caught a flash of pink tongue.

Mingyu sat down, he stretched his legs out but the concrete dug into his calves, so he put his feet on a few steps up. This was more comfortable but his legs were too long and he must’ve looked comical like this, knees so high up.

Once Mingyu settled, Jeonghan shifted his weight, leaning against Mingyu and dropping his head onto Mingyu’s shoulder. At this, Mingyu jolted for a second, and then willed himself to relax and mould his own shape to Jeonghan’s so that they would fit more comfortably.

It felt like ages since Mingyu had last seen him. He wanted to open his mouth and run it, curiosity like a balloon in his throat. _What are you doing, where have you been, do you remember me._ But Jeonghan’s eyes were closed again and he seemed to be completely wiped out and exhausted. Like this, Mingyu can count his eyelashes fanning over his cheek, feel Jeonghan’s breath running along his collarbones. The position reminded him of that halloween party in high school, but reversed.

There were smokers chatting by the bins, and once in a while the doors will swing open with another set of footsteps that will rush past them, bringing in a burst of deep bass and electronic music that get smothered into silence again. Despite the distractions, it felt like the two of them was in their own space, undisturbed by the world. Mingyu wanted to suspend this moment, to take them away to another dimension and wait until Jeonghan had recovered so that Mingyu could talk to him. _Why are you out here? What are you feeling? Do you want to get something to eat?_ He wanted them to talk into the early morning about their interests and histories, for Mingyu to talk about his hobbies and for Jeonghan to listen. For Mingyu to get out his camera and take a photo of Jeonghan, opposite him with a meal between them. For Mingyu to remember and hoard this memory of _I had his attention for this night._

But Mingyu knew that eventually the evening will end and they will part ways. That Jeonghan had someone who will look for him. Mingyu knew this because Jeonghan was wearing a jacket that was too large for him, shoulder hem almost at his elbow. But it was the smell that gave it away, pungent aftershave that Jeonghan would never use, and the astringency of cologne layered upon sports deodorant.

It was a reminder of a third person, presence hovering like a ghost.

The door swung open and music pounded into his back.

“Hannie-yah,” a voice called over Mingyu’s shoulder.

Mingyu turned and looked up, “Ah hyung.” It was Choi Seungcheol, his old taekwondo captain and someone that always hung around Jeonghan in high school. He looked so much older in the handsome way, jaw harder and chest broader. But he still had the long eyelashes and pouty lips that made his face difficult to look away from.

Seungcheol burst into a grin, "Mingooo~ Hello hello.” He dropped down into a squat and violently ruffled Mingyu’s hair.

“Cheollie,” Jeonghan said. Mingyu looked back. Jeonghan’s eyes were wide open and he was sitting up, all traces of fatigue gone, “Time to go home.” He was a completely different person compared to just a minute ago, now awake and responsible.

"Noooo," Seungcheol whined, "Don't wanna." Seungcheol moved from Mingyu to swing both arms over Jeonghan's shoulder, cheek smushing into Jeonghan's hair. Mingyu could smell the soju on his breath and taste the jealousy in his own throat. _He_ wants to touch Jeonghan like this, to use a nickname and for Jeonghan to hold his body and take him home. He wanted to know what home was to Jeonghan, what he looked like when he woke up, what his preferred hangover breakfast was. Mingyu would have cooked it for him.

“Up up, lets go,” Jeonghan huffed. With much effort, he got up and all of a sudden the weight of two people detached from him and Mingyu felt the chilly air sweep in to fill the space.

“See you Mingyu,” Jeonghan said, lugging Seungcheol away.

"See you hyung." Mingyu notices that Jeonghan does not say, _see you later._ They were never close in high school because they were two grades apart and Mingyu only ever saw him at a distance. He knew Seungcheol better, and now he wished he had done something to pull them closer so that he kept Jeonghan in his life somehow, in any way. Even if it was only peripherally. He wished that he had gotten to know Jeonghan as a person instead of as a mirage sewed from a thousand glimpses.

Mingyu wondered which Jeonghan was the truer one, the one who slept on his shoulder, or the one who got up for Seungcheol.

It doesn’t matter, because in the end, Choi Seungcheol leaves with the real Yoon Jeonghan and Kim Mingyu is left with a barn full of dreams.

* * *

Mingyu reaches the lounge room. Inside, is the last Jeonghan he ever dreamt into life.

This Jeonghan is handsome in the mature way adults are, having grown into themselves after receiving a full-time salary and being hit in the face with age. But this Jeonghan is so, so, tired, in a way that was not just due to time and overwork.

This is also the Jeonghan that terrifies him the most, more than the silver-haired Jeonghan who chokes him in his sleep, and more than the first Jeonghan who was too much of a dream and not enough of a person.

Because this Jeonghan, is the closest copy of the real thing.

* * *

Mingyu does not see Jeonghan for a long time after that encounter at the club. But by a stroke of luck he became co-workers with a Jeon Wonwoo who was gaming buddies with Choi Seungcheol and Mingyu found himself in a regular circle for Friday night drinks. They became close, but there was never the opportunity to ask about Jeonghan, and Jeonghan himself never showed up, not in person, not in second-hand anecdotes.

A few years later, Seungcheol proposes to his girlfriend and decides to have a destination wedding in Jeju.

“Whose the best man?” Wonwoo had asked. He looked to Seungcheol, and then sideways at Mingyu and then Vernon, as if scoping the competition.

Seungcheol laughed and shook his head, “None of you.”

“Then who is it?” Mingyu prodded. But his stomach clenched, as if he knew the answer that was coming.

Seungcheol looks at Mingyu, “I think only you know him. My best friend from high school, Yoon Jeonghan.”

* * *

The next time he sees Jeonghan is in the hotel bar, 3 hours before the dry rehearsal. He still has his luggage next to him, and his suit in a bag hooked to the handle. His skin was perfect and Mingyu had itched to ask if he had anything done, but when Jeonghan looked up at Mingyu’s footsteps, there was a look in his eyes that suggested he did not completely want to be here.

“Hyung,” Mingyu voiced, “Hello.”

It was so strange, to face this Jeonghan when Mingyu has 16 copies of him in a barn. To see Jeonghan up close and just _know_ that this is the real thing made Mingyu’s knees weak, that he could not guess what this Jeonghan will say or do next. To know that, if measured against this experience, all his dreams would be exposed for what they are and dissolve into the air.

“Hello Mingyu,” Jeonghan tilted his head, lips pressed into a thin smile, “How are you?”

“I’m good,” Mingyu swallows, “Congratulations on being best man.”

Jeonghan snorts lightly, “You say it like it's a prize. It’s just more work.” He swivels on his seat and uses his feet to point at the bar stool next to him, “Come sit.”

Mingyu moves and his complicity surprises himself. He was never this obedient for the other Jeonghans, or for other people. There was an aura around Jeonghan that Mingyu never noticed, an aura which only appeared when Jeonghan was alone. Mingyu wanted to figure it out. He wanted to stare and preserve it in his memory. He wanted to ask Jeonghan all the questions that have been building over the decade and dig out all the information that made up this man. A decade living with dreams, and finally now he has the chance to face the real one. His fingertips tingled.

He breathed out. Later. Slow down. They have a weekend ahead of them and plenty of opportunities to talk. Mingyu made eye contact with the bartender.

“Hendricks with tonic please,” Mingyu said, raising a hand. He gave himself a moment, pretending to make sure his order was heard, and then he turned back to Jeonghan.

Mingyu sucked in a breath. Jeonghan was looking at him. It was just the two of them and Jeonghan was so close. If Mingyu wanted he could stare and memorise all the details on his face. Jeonghan had one elegant eyebrow just slightly raised, as if expecting Mingyu to talk.

“You cut your hair,” Mingyu blurts out. He winces, the question immediately feels immature to his own ears.

“I only had long hair in school,” Jeonghan replies smoothly.

 _Why_ , Mingyu almost asks. But Jeonghan had paused, as if he had said too much, or it was a topic he did not venture into.

“How are you?” Mingyu evens his tone. He straightens his back and sits up, makes sure his cufflinks aren’t clicking against the table or that his fringe has drooped, “It’s been a while.”

“Same old,” Jeonghan shrugs. He takes another sip of his drink, “Ah, but we never really got to know each other.”

Mingyu shakes his head, “Not at all.”

“Well then, we have an hour to kill so tell me about yourself.” Jeonghan places an elbow on the bar and plops his chin on his palm, there’s a slight curl to his lip and the glint in his eye reminds Mingyu of the way he thought Jeonghan was, all those years ago. Beautiful and mischievous, like a jar of honey with a mousetrap inside. “Distract me."

Mingyu tries to read Jeonghan. His eyes flicker to the luggage, the keycard on the counter. He takes in the melted ice and Jeonghan’s fingers clutched around the glass.

At 16, this was what Mingyu wanted the most. At 31, he’s not so sure if he can stomach it.

* * *

For the ceremony, all Mingyu has to do is walk straight and look handsome. He doesn't know the bridesmaid on his arm, so he's polite enough to meet a minimum standard, and afterwards he stares at the back of Jeonghan’s head. Jeonghan doesn't look at him at all, always facing the main couple.

The venue is beautiful, the weather is lovely, the bride is stunning and Seungcheol's voice breaks in the middle of his vows. When they kiss, Jeonghan turns away, his head tilted towards the sky. His shoulders rise and fall, and then he's turning back again, smile on his face, hands together in jubilant applause.

* * *

During the dinner Jeonghan downed his champagne and slipped out. He doesn’t come back for several minutes so Mingyu flashes a glance at Seungcheol before following.

Jeonghan is sitting on a curb, staring at the sky with an unreadable expression.

Mingyu made sure his footsteps were audible as he approached but Jeonghan doesn’t move. He interpreted this as permission and tentatively sat down next to Jeonghan.

“Fresh air?” Mingyu asked.

“Something like that,” Jeonghan shifted and suddenly, dropped his head into the crook of Mingyu’s shoulder. Mingyu jolted at the weight, and then forced himself to relax. His mouth is overflowing with questions again, but he swallowed it down. And swallowed once more for measure. He just knew this wasn’t an opportunity to talk.

“They’ll miss you,” Mingyu said, in lieu of anything else.

“Give me a minute,” Jeonghan muttered, “You’re nice to lean against.”

Mingyu flushed all the way to his ears. His brain whirred so loudly he felt like Jeonghan must have heard him think. But for a long while Jeonghan didn’t say anything and they sat together in silence, party flourishing behind them. Mingyu did not move or speak until Jeonghan raised his head again.

“Lets go back inside,” Jeonghan stretched his arms and legs, “Thank you Mingyu.” He got up, dusted the back of his pants, and walked away.

“You’re welcome,” Mingyu scratched his cheek and watched him go. For the first time in his life, Mingyu felt like he saw Yoon Jeonghan for who he was, rather than who he pretended to be.

* * *

The first night back to Seoul, Mingyu dreamt a dream so enchanting he had woken up with a cry because he wanted to dream again.

He fell back upon his pillows and squeezed his eyes shut, scouring his mind for any remnant. Jeonghan was there, but in a way Mingyu has never anticipated and the unfamiliarity of it thrilled him. There were flashes of _something_ , purple lights, a white shirt, music — but the images flitted out of his brain as soon has they appeared. The more Mingyu thought about it, the faster the memories fled until he was chasing impressions of his own imagination and there was nothing left except a vague sense that there was a dream.

Something shifted next to him and Mingyu shot up, throwing back the sheets. It was a Jeonghan with dark eyes that pierced right through Mingyu’s soul. There was something different in his look that was unsettling, it was unlike any of the gazes of the other Jeonghans, back in the barn. Different to the Jeonghan with stars in his eyes and different to the Jeonghan that smelled like another man’s cologne.

Mingyu looked at this Jeonghan and he felt like he was thrown back to the hotel bar, facing the real Yoon Jeonghan that smiled only with his mouth and not his eyes.

The other Jeonghans felt and talked like the stuff dreams are made of, gorgeous but insubstantial, solemn but thin.

This Jeonghan felt human.

* * *

The Jeonghan in the lounge room is sleeping on the rug with a plastic knife in his hand. He’s surrounded by Lego models and scattered instruction manuals. There’s strawberry milk by his elbow, tip of the straw chewed out and wrangled. He has short black hair that falls over his face in a gentle fringe and a tiniest wrinkle on the corner of his eyes.

Mingyu steps over the mess. He could ask the chestnut-haired Jeonghan to clean this up, but he wants to do it himself, later.

He taps Jeonghan on the shoulder.

“I want to leave,” Jeonghan says without moving, so soft it is almost a soundless whisper.

 _I’m taking you to dinner,_ Mingyu wants to reply, except he knows that this is not what Jeonghan means at all.

“I’m sorry,” Mingyu says instead.

**Author's Note:**

>   * elements of this fic are based on the Raven Cycle/Dreamer Trilogy by Maggie Stiefvater, it's a novel series I recommend for lovers of fantasy and magical realism!
>   * partly influenced by the [bleak boyband bingo](https://drive.google.com/file/d/1Dx5JxHTXScnRrmYGY6gDTvmRrlk6LT_j/view) squares of [hero worship] and [everyone saying ‘I love you’ but not quite in the way you like] 
>   * title from _Winged Histories_ by Sofia Samarta
> 



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